Choices
by AParticularlyLargeBear
Summary: From a prompt: 'I would have joined up anyway'; The many and varied potential backgrounds of the Inquisitor come to join the cause, even though they themselves were not at the Conclave. These are their stories, presented in a series of vignettes.
1. Cadash

There are some things in life that just make a dwarf question their life decisions.

Cadash – 'Dusty' to most, reaches this point not during any of her general thievery, cheating, or backstabbing, but when she finds herself smuggling lyrium.

Shifty surface dwarf sneaking around with shipments of lyrium. She sounds like a character out of a sodding Tethras. A _bad_ Tethras.

When the Carta says there's money in it, though, Dusty doesn't get to complain. All they care about is that there's good coin in moving lyrium to this 'Inquisition group', and to them, she's nothing more a common footpad. Being i_good_/i at being a footpad doesn't change the fact that she's highly expendable, and not listening to orders is a very good way to rise to the top of the expense list. Complaining is another, no matter how anxious the concept of waltzing into a military stronghold next to a hole in the sky makes her.

So it's with some apprehension that the dwarf walks on up to the gates of the town called Haven, doing her best not to let it show by keeping a slight swagger in her step. She's passed a smith already, but apparently it isn't him that handles this kind of thing. Fantastic – this Inquisition business is so big that they've got their own sodding quartermasters. The scope of the operations here makes her stomach knot with unease, cause it means the threat must be even more dire than she'd first thought. Dusty's not sure whether it would be worse if the Inquisition was tiny and nobody was paying attention to the Breach at all.

"You're looking a little lost there."

Dusty, standing still inside of the gates as she tries to figure out where she needs to go, almost has a heart attack when she looks around, because _what the ever-loving sod that's Varric Tethras._

_Okay. Play this cool. Just because he wrote your favourite book ever doesn't mean that you need to freak out. Just say 'Oh I'm looking for a place to drop off some lyrium; say, you're that author, right?'_

Dusty opens her mouth. A high pitched squeak comes out.

_Sod!_

Tethras smiles, and a chuckle isn't far behind. "Would you believe me if I told you that's a better reaction than most I've been getting lately?"

She finally manages a word, and it's stammered. "M…maybe?" Great. She's meeting a personal hero out of the blue and she's acting like a thick-skulled rock licker.

"Well, I'm guessing you're here with lyrium?"

Dusty's eyebrows must have risen, because Tethras fills in an explanation. "Your satchel is glowing. Also, you have that shifty smuggler look."

"So do you," she blurts without thinking, then immediately claps a hand to her mouth, eyes going wide. Her and her damn mouth!

After the briefest, dread-filled pause, Tethras just laughs again. "The Seeker would agree with you," he gives a slight, flourishing bow. "Varric Tethras."

Dusty resists the urge to tell him that she knew that already. "Cadash. Dusty, if you want."

"Carta, huh? Well, since you haven't tried to kill me yet, we're already off to a better start than the last criminal ring I ran into."

"I could be waiting for you to let your guard down," she's smiling now. When did she start smiling? A kind of giddy excitement is running through her. She's holding an actual conversation with the actual Varric Tethras, the man who created guardsman Donnen and all the rest of Hard in Hightown.

"Around a shifty smuggler? You might be waiting a while," Tethras taps his nose, and then gestures further into Haven. "You'll be looking for Threnn, near the chantry. I was heading that way, so you can tag along if you'd like," he pauses for long enough to grin. "Unless you're just too in love with that whole 'completely lost' feeling."

"Lead on."

Tethras turns, and Dusty stares after him for a couple of seconds before following. Maybe this Inquisition gig won't be so bad after all.


	2. Eldan Lavellan

"I don't like it here. Shems everywhere."

Sitting cross-legged on top of a rock, Eldan Lavellan glances up to regard his companion, leaning against a nearby tree with arms folded and a dour expression on her face. Her Dal'Thanaan is planted in the snow alongside her, the axe's half-buried blades glinting in the light.

"You could always leave," Eldan remarks mildly. "I'm sure the Keeper would like to hear what happened at the Conclave firsthand."

"Not a chance, _Lethallan_. If I go back without the First, the Keeper will skin me alive. Besides, reporting on the Conclave was your job, not mine."

How can he forget? Revea only takes every possible opportunity to remind him. Trying to make him feel guilty. Often it works; they're a long way from home, and though they'd both been sent together, there's a lot more to interest and engage Eldan than there is Revea. She, however, won't leave without him, and sometimes it's difficult to acknowledge that his choice to remain in Haven causes his clanmate no end of stress.

"And now I'm reporting on the Inquisition, too."

Revea scowls at him and sharply tips her head forward, causing her floppy black fringe to drop into her eyes. It's an unspoken signal that she's done talking. Eldan tries not to sigh and goes back to perusing his book, a set of tales on Andraste and the Chant of Light. His companion, he knows, would have greatly disapproved if she was able to read the human language; she's already given him a piece of her mind on what she thinks of the human Chantry. It's a relief that she hasn't asked what the book is, because he's not sure that he's a good enough liar to come up with a story. Eldan's interest is scholarly, but he doubts Revea will see it that way.

Being away from the clan has been… well, the only way that Eldan can put it is exhilarating. He's never encountered humans outside of the context of driving them away, only met elves outside of Dalish clans a handful of times, and he's certainly had no experience of dwarves. Clan Lavellan aren't insular exactly, but that's by Dalish standards; taking an interest in human affairs and actually spending time in human society are very different things. They even have mages here, something previously limited to encountering another Dalish clan in the Free Marches. Clan Lavellan has never had more than three mages, counting himself and the Keeper. Children manifesting magically are adopted out to other clans as best as they're able.

Regardless, Eldan has always wanted to learn more about magic, although most of those around Haven have been frustratingly averse to his questioning. Words like 'apostate' have been thrown about a lot, and he's had plenty of dirty looks from the men and women with the sword sigil on their armour. It's not that he wasn't expecting hostility and suspicion from non-Dalish, more a sadness that sharing knowledge seems to be so little of a priority. The hole in the sky is a genuine threat; it seems to Eldan that everyone should be pooling what they know rather than questioning one another's motives.

Quiet footsteps from nearby, Eldan twists, noting as he does so that Revea has looked up and is already wearing a death glare.

"Uh… _Andaran atish'an_," the pronunciation is laboured, and the realisation is instant that the speaker is not elven. As a matter of fact…

Well, this is quite a surprise. The dark skinned woman approaching them is a person Eldan recognises, the one that they call the Herald. He's heard her name before, he's sure. Tre… Trevall… he can't recall. Human names are still difficult.

"What do you want, shem?" Revea is blunt as always, her hostility naked.

The Herald is obviously taken aback, and Eldan hastily tries to mitigate the damage. "I apologise for Revea. She has little experience of shemlen- _humans_. What can I do for you?"

"Don't worry. Right now, if the worst thing that happens to me in a day is hurt feelings, then I consider it a win," she smiles, taking any of the potential sting out of her words.

Revea's glower is something exceptional; Eldan can feel its presence almost physically, even without looking at her. "You didn't answer the question."

"So I didn't," she looks back to Eldan, scrutinising for a moment. "You're the Dalish mage I've been hearing about, right?"

"I'm unaware of any others, so I imagine I must be."

"Uh huh…" The Herald nods, and for a second seems a little unsure of herself. "Okay I'm going to be honest here, I've got one person telling me you're a spy and should be kicked out of Haven, one saying that we should imprison and interrogate you, and another two saying I should ask you to politely leave."

"Oh," Eldan can't muster much else of a response. This is unexpected, though he supposes that technically he is a spy, albeit a rather benign one as far as he's concerned.

Revea's reaction is less mild. Immediately she reaches for the Dal'Thanaan, and the Herald takes a step back as the slim elf lifts a weapon half her size seemingly without effort. "I'd think carefully about your next move, shem," she snarls. "The First is my responsibility, and-"

"_However_," the Herald continues on as if a weapon isn't being brandished at her. "So far as I can tell, your greatest crime has been curiosity, and I feel that's less than punishable. If it was, I'd have been locked in a cell somewhere a long time ago," her eyes are watching Revea's axe, but she's so very still. Her composure is remarkable. "Anyway, I'm not here to tell you to leave. You obviously care enough about the Breach to have not gone home of your own volition. So… how about instead of hanging around on the outside of things, you join the Inquisition? We try to treat everyone fairly, and the expertise of another mage would be-"

"Shem, if you think-"

"What are the terms?"

"_First!_" Revea's voice is appalled. Eldan glances to her, and his companion's face is just as stunned. "You can't seriously be thinking about this."

His temper cracks, just a little. His hand snaps out, pointing to the swirling hole in the sky. "That is everyone's problem, _lethallin_, not just humans or dwarves. It isn't going to go away by itself. The Keeper wanted to know what happened at the Conclave and we have an answer. If you want to ignore what that answer might mean, then you can go back home!"

Revea stares at him. Anger from Eldan is a rare sight. She lowers the axe, and then her head.

The Herald hesitates for a moment before speaking again. "Well, as part of the Inquisition you'd be expected to listen to orders, but we'd aim to put you wherever you could be the most effective, and we wouldn't force you to do anything that you didn't want to. We're not in the business of putting non-fighters on the front lines, apart from the really annoying quill pushers," she holds up both hands, and for a brief instant, the vibrant green mark on her hand is visible. Like a scar, and yet something more. Eldan can feel the magic humming around it from here. "Kidding, kidding."

"That sounds reasonable to me. Very well, I accept your offer."

"Then welcome aboard," the Herald puts out her hand in front of her. Eldan's eyes drop to it. There's an awkward silence.

"It's a hand," she says after a few seconds. "You… shake it."

"Oh," Eldan frowns. "Why?"

The Herald's brow furrows. "You know, I never really thought about it. I suppose it's just a greeting, or a way to show a deal has been agreed," she drops the hand after another awkward pause.

Revea makes a small noise of disgust as the Herald nods, smiles, and turns back towards Haven.

"Your friend is welcome too," the human calls over her shoulder. "She reminds me of someone I know!"


	3. Cadash II

It's a little strange how quickly Haven begins to feel like home. Dusty is used to being viewed with suspicion, at best, and she can't even say that it's unjustified. Most of her interactions with humans prior to the Inquisition generally involved either stealing from them or speaking with them as contacts… en route to stealing something. So really, she would totally have understood if everyone had spent the entire time there watching her hands, and it would have only hurt her feelings a little, even though she hasn't picked a pocket since before this Breach business ever kicked off.

However, not only do the people around treat her the same as any of the rest of their comrades, Dusty is actually starting to be recognised, and that's more than a little alarming. Blending inconspicuously into the background is kind of her thing; it's difficult to get anywhere as a conspicuous smuggler. Once she gets past the initial reaction of 'oh sod, the lawmen know my face', though, she's able to see that it's just, well… friendliness. The quartermaster Threnn always takes care to be polite, even though she really doesn't have to. Some of the guards call out greetings when they see her approaching the gates , and then there's the elven researcher Minaeve, with whom Dusty had quite an involved conversation about lyrium. It felt weird to be treated like an expert on anything, and if Dusty's honest, she really isn't, but it was nice to help out, even a little.

Haven is just… different from the Carta. Back with the other Cadash, it's a competition with cutthroat stakes. Who can bring in the biggest take? Who's been hanging out with whom? Who's pulled off the most impressive job? Which boss do you owe your loyalty to? Everyone's looking out for themselves first and foremost, and anyone that tells you otherwise is, to a greater or lesser extent, lying through their teeth. Dusty can't even claim it was any different for her; she kept to herself, didn't ask questions, and did as she was told. The Inquisition by contrast… well, it's not quite accurate to say that everyone works together; she sees friction all the time, especially between the ex-templars and the mages. Past that, though, there's camaraderie, genuine cooperation, genuine belief in their cause. Somewhere along the way, spending days resting from the journey and helping out where she can, reluctance growing to leave and start the supply run all over again, she realises that maybe a little of that belief is creeping into her, too. Andraste was real, and this is real. Not like the Stone is doing anything for her up here, being a casteless exile and all.

It's with that in mind that Dusty carefully approaches one of the tents close to Haven's chantry. She's always had that knack for moving quietly, and the hooded figure leaning over a table doesn't move as she steps under the tent's tarpaulin.

"Can I help you?" the voice is cool, Orlesian-accented. Its owner straightens up but doesn't turn.

"I ah… I overheard some people calling you the Divine's hand."

There's a pause, and then the woman turns to regard Dusty. Her hair is red, though a little softer in hue than Dusty's flaming crop-cut. She's also wearing quite the frown. "I was," she admits, and Dusty knows guard when she hears it.

"I was… well… I was wondering if I could ask you some things. About the Maker."

The woman stares down as Dusty like she's grown a second head, and then erupts in peals of laughter, a veritable fit of giggling that catches the dwarf completely by surprise.

"That was not what I was expecting when I heard you walk in," she eventually informs Dusty. The woman's eyes sweep her, and for an instant, she feels completely bare. "I've seen you around. Yes, I think you've worked with some of my people. A smuggler, are you not?"

"Yeah, that's right."

The hooded woman looks back to her desk, where Dusty can just about make out page after page of letters. "Well, I suppose I have a moment," she inclines her head. "I am Leliana."

"Dusty. Cadash."

"Mm, I know a story when I see one," Leliana does not follow up on that enigmatic remark, though there's a twinkle in her eyes as she says it. "All right, tell me; how familiar are you with the Chant of Light?"

The half hour before Leliana is pulled back to her duties is amongst the most illuminating in Dusty's entire life.


	4. Eldan Lavellan II

"The poultice will need replacing in three days. It'll itch a great deal, but you must leave it be. If it discolours, come to me immediately."

Eldan's patient, who can't be more than fourteen or fifteen years old, gawks at him and then nods, standing up and walking away, staring at the mash of herbs that have been applied to his arm.

It gives the Dalish a moment to catch his breath. The Hinterlands are a roiling mess, and nowhere moreso than the Crossroads, which have become something of a rallying point for all the refugees in the region. Just a few short weeks ago, the situation was even worse; Eldan's mostly caught the aftermath of it all, but he's heard enough stories from distraught wounded to know what was happening here before the Inquisition arrived. Mages and Templars at one another's throats, not caring who got caught in the middle, not caring who their selfish ways harmed, no better than wild beasts.

He has to admit that it's overwhelming at times. Eldan's magic, though he can twist the applications a little if he wishes, is largely based around healing and renewal. It's been useful for many years amongst his clan, and more than one hunter owes their survival to him. As such, assisting the injured is a natural fit. It was only on the second day that Eldan realised that there were just too many hurt and sick for him to help personally. Magic can only stretch so far, and collapsing from exhaustion won't help anyone. This is where the more conventional methods come into play; herbal remedies, unguents and potions, and in the most depressing cases, simple bandages, wound cleaning and aftercare. He tries not to wonder how many people have died who could have been saved by something as easy as fresh dressings.

Revea is constantly hovering over him, fretting like a mother bird; looking out for anyone amongst the crowd of refugees that might wish her First harm. It doesn't matter that Eldan protests the crossroads are well defended and that nobody has any reason to attack a healer. So far as she's concerned, it's her duty to protect him, and it's clear enough from the look on her face that the sheer number of people around makes her uneasy. Eldan can't blame her; the moment his concentration is diverted from saving lives, the oppressive atmosphere of just too many people in one place closes in on him. There are more refugees in this area alone than members of their clan, and that's without counting the Inquisition troops using it as a staging area.

"That shem is looking at me weird," Revea mutters, arms folded, standing vigilant watch over Eldan's triage.

"We're Dalish," Eldan answers mildly. "It would be odder if they didn't find us unusual."

"A stupid child asked me who drew on my face, yesterday. He thought the _Vallaslin _was paint."

"And did you explain our ways to him? Did you ensure he walked away from the encounter knowing more than when it began?"

"…Shut up."

Eldan smiles sweetly at her, and she retaliates with her finest scowl. Revea's scowls really are something quite spectacular; her lips go flat, with just a hint of downturning in the corners, her eyebrows drop, a single crease in her brow, tugging her _Vallaslin _ever so slightly lopsided. And the look in her eyes… well, it's just pure murder, the kind of unadulterated venom that could strike a man dead at fifteen paces.

Quite frankly the looks are so potent that Eldan has to wonder if she practices them in her spare time, in between pin cushioning targets with her bow and hewing dummies to pieces with that Dal'Thanaan of hers. Revea's certainly perfected the art of the glower to be at least on par with her axework.

"You're always so tense, _lethallin_. Perhaps you should do a little hunting? I heard someone claiming that supplies were running low again. Productivity would do you some good."

"This again? First, I'm not leaving you without a guard-"

"I'm surrounded with soldiers, and if anything untoward happens, we have watchtowers set up to give us forewarning." he makes a gesture, broadly pointing out the Inquisition sentries. "Besides, if you bring back some meat, it would make everyone a little more calm, less likely to do anything stupid. So in a way, you'd actually be protecting me still."

Revea eyes Eldan in silence for a very long time. "You're too smart for your own good, First."

She turns on her heel and walks away, grabbing quiver and bow from her small pile of possessions as she does so, stomping towards the crossroads' exit path. Eldan, left watching her go, feels tension creeping into his muscles. Hopefully he hasn't just done the wrong thing…


	5. Andrew Trevelyan

"There's been some more news out of Haven."

Andrew Trevelyan's ears prick up. Surreptitiously, he shifts a little in his chair. His eyes remain on his book, but every facet of his attention fixes towards the hushed conversation emanating from between the shelves behind him.

The Conclave was an abject failure; everyone in Ostwick's circle knows that. Most of Ostwick's circle was expecting it to fail in the first place. Nobody, though, has been in much of a mood for 'told you so's after hearing what happened there. They'd sent a delegation in the hopes of at least protecting their neutrality, and not a one had returned. Good people, good mages, dead to some kind of attack that breached the very Fade itself.

Andrew had wanted to go, but had been denied on the grounds of his age. For once his youth had worked in his favour… but it's very difficult to view it in that way. Difficult not to think that if had been there, it would have all somehow turned out differently. The magical might of a barely-out-of-apprenticeship student would surely have made all the difference.

"Yes, there was a survivor apparently."

"And he closed the breach?"

"She, but yes. That isn't all, either."

Andrew strains to listen, but the speakers are getting further away, heading to some dark corner of the library no doubt.

"… … an Inquisition."

"… is that? … … I've never…"

And then one final word.

"Trevelyan."

An eerie feeling not unlike having cool water poured over his head descends upon Andrew. He's used to his name not meaning much, in spite of being faintly aware that it belongs to the nobility. It's a little difficult to feel a particularly strong association when he was taken from his family at the age of six. Besides, the Templars never really cared about that, and the enchanters always advised him to do the same. Nobody in a Circle gets special treatment… at least not for which family they were born into.

So in what context could they be mentioning his family and Haven at the same time? It's plausible they mean him personally, he supposes, but that's, to be frank, so little of a comfort that now that Andrew considers it, the possibility is actually worse. Anti-comfort. There goes his stupid brain doing that 'thinking' thing again and just exacerbating the problem.

It's been doing that a lot lately. Contemplating the consequences of Ostwick trying to stay out this whole mage-templar war. Assessing how ridiculous it is to attempt to avoid getting involved with a conflict that includes them automatically, by dint of what they were born with. Also, consistently reminding him that there's that one library book that he really should get around to returning, only he can't remember where he put it. Truly an existential mystery for the ages.

Still. Even taking into account Andrew's habit to dwell, and dwell hard, that was definitely his name he heard. What was it that they mentioned? An Inquisition? That's not a term that Andrew is familiar with, though if he were to hazard a guess, he'd say that it sounds… templary. He's a mage. If he can play around with the fabric of the world then he can make up words. He hopes that he's wrong though, because the last thing Andrew wants to see out of the ashes of the Conclave is even more militant templars. A good chunk of them already have enough of a chip on their shoulder, although Andrew's inner pessimist has to admit that, well, a hole being blown in the Fade does rather point to magical origins.

Andrew sighs. Well now there's just no way he's going to be able to get back into reading.


	6. Revea Lavellan

Revea Lavellan wants to go home. She longs for the simplicities of clan life, scouting and hunting, herding the halla, helping push the aravels after they get stuck in the mud. She misses her friends and family, and even just the sound of her own language; Eldan won't speak a word of elven in front of his patients, saying that they need to be at ease with their doctor. Since arriving at these crossroads, there's hardly been a waking moment that _hasn't_ been occupied by patients.

Each time she thinks of the Free Marches, or in those dark moments of the First's gentle reminders that she does not need to stay if she does not wish, the Keeper's words echo in the back of Revea's mind.

'_Da'len, I am entrusting you with Eldan's safety. The shemlen do not treat mages as we do, and he will be in danger. Watch over him at this 'Conclave', and please… make every effort to be careful. Go with Mythal's blessing.'_

The First is her responsibility, no matter how much he may assure her to the contrary. He's not a fighter, never has been, even when they were both children and Eldan hadn't demonstrated his magical abilities yet. To call him useless with a bow would be charitable, and Revea has seen kitchen knives wielded with better grace than the First approaches swordplay.

_Andruil_, even the fact that she knows what a kitchen knife is now is infuriating. She's becoming _used _to the shems' ways. How long has it been living amongst them? The answer, arriving a moment later as she considers, counting the weeks, is that they have now spent longer as part of this 'Inquisition' than outside of it. She's even recognised, now and then, though more or less exclusively as 'the herbalist mage's friend'.

That's disconcerting. Doubly so when she takes note of the smiles and greetings her First receives amongst the shems and flat-ears. They like him, maybe even look up to him. And it's because of the hard-won expertise that should be benefiting their own people. Yes, Eldan is helping here, but that means that he can't help the clan. Does the Inquisition ever consider that? Revea wonders and doubts. If it hadn't been for the offer that one shem gave Eldan, she's certain that the First would have been willing to return to the clan by now. Instead, he's seen the wounded in these Hinterlands and had a fire lit underneath him.

Revea has always respected Eldan's unerring desire to nurse others back to health and save lives. This just happens to be the first time she's ever seen that devotion turned to something outside of the clan. It's not that she doesn't think the shems deserve help, just that… just that…

"_Fenedhis Lasa!_" she spits vehemently, cresting one of the Hinterlands' many, many hills. Here in the wilderness at least, she can actually express her frustration without getting strange looks from everyone around her. Demons around every corner, a hole in the sky, and they can't even tolerate a few words in a language they don't understand.

Revea wishes that she knew more of their language, that Dirthamen had blessed her with a more scholarly mind, so that she could help unravel the mysteries of the elves' past. Instead, she's barely able to remember half the stories she's told, and it's been a series of hard lessons to finally commit to memory just which herbs are useful for which effects. She works diligently at it, but where others dance elegantly over problems, circumventing them with cunning solutions, Revea is the one plodding along behind, ploughing straight through. It's the reason she dedicates herself so thoroughly to the dal'thanaan, an art few of her people practice and fewer still actively encouraged her to pursue.

'_It's too heavy for you, da'len!'_

'_Using a weapon like that weighs you down, makes you slow. Come along, I'll show you some more techniques for the Dar'Misaan.'_

'_Still sticking with the Dal'Thanaan, I see…'_

'_Ha, you blunder around like a shem with that thing, Revea!'_

That gnawed at her then and gnaws at her now. She's trying to preserve a traditional form of fighting with a traditional weapon, and her only reward is mockery.

An arrow leaves her bow with a quiet _thwip_. An instant later, there's a bleating cry of pain, followed by a thump. The rams that roam these lands are a sturdy, swift group of animals, but they're used to human hunters with homemade bows. Revea's was carved and strung by the finest craftsman in the clan, and her eye and aim are better than most amongst her own people, let alone compared to shems. The poor beasts never even see her coming.

Lowering her bow, Revea trots off down the hill, down towards the patch of scrub where her prey lies in a slowly spreading pool of blood. It's a good size, would be good eating for a while… though it won't last long in an area packed with refugees. Still, there's enough daylight to take this back to the Crossroads and make another trip, so perhaps she can-

There's a snarl, and all of a sudden, a wolf pads out from the brush. A large wolf. Revea stops in her tracks, watching carefully. In the time it takes her to shoulder her bow and put her hand on her dal'thanaan, another two wolves have emerged into the open. They're eyeing the ram, and within a couple of seconds, have turned their baleful gaze on her instead. Revea returns their stares with her own. These are unlike any _Fen _she has ever seen in the Free Marches, huge and black and with just a hint of glow in their eyes.

And that's about as much time as Revea has for observation. The lead wolf surges forward, baying for blood. The dal'thanaan is out and swinging in the same motion, catching the lupine assailant straight in the muzzle as it leaps, dashing it aside. The second wolf is there just a moment later, and Revea rides her momentum to bring her axe up a second time, taking a step back to square herself, then putting everything in her hips to arc the weapon through the air again. Another spray of blood, and the wolf yelps as the axe bites deep, cleaving flesh and bone. Again Revea reorients herself, twisting to hunt for the final wolf- and it slams into her from the side.

She staggers at first, and then falls, the animal's weight bearing her to the ground. She struggles, shifting, and its jaws snap at her face, forcing the elf to jerk herself to the side to not lose an ear. Even then, its teeth scrape at the skin, drawing blood from thin gouges. The slavering mouth looms above, breath hot and reeking, inches away from her cheek, pressing down upon her, using her axe outright impossible. Revea's hand scrabbles at her waist, fingers groping and then finds purchase, the wolf's fangs closer and closer- her knife rips from its sheath and plunges into the wolf's chest. It lets out a howl, and she draws back, stabbing again, again, a warm, stinking spray splashing her in the face. Desperately it attempts to bite once more, but the strength is leaving it, and the wolf sags before at last lying still.

Revea lets out a slow, shaky breath and pushes the body off of her, painstakingly climbing back up to her feet. She's soaked in blood from head to toe, and the wounds on her face throb with pain. Still, other than a few scratches and bruises she's okay, for the most part. Falon'Din take this country! That isn't how wolves are supposed to act!

Muttering darkly to herself, Revea retrieves the dal'thanaan and then looks over to the ram, planning out how she'll butcher it, what parts of it she can make use of. Maybe she'll bring back some wolf meat, see how the refugees like _that_.

Stupid shems. Stupid Fereldan. Stupid First.


	7. Cadash III

Faith is something new to Dusty. She believes in luck and providence, the cards falling in your favour. That's not quite the same thing as trusting in a higher power, a grand authority figure with a plan for all, that he just so happens not to really share beyond an obscure, difficult to interpret story. Dusty prefers to focus on the more tangible aspects of the Maker; Andraste, the encouragement to do good. The Herald, even if it's clearly a subject for some considerable debate whether or not the woman was sent by the Maker or just got very, very lucky. She feels a little bad for picking and choosing sometimes, but in her opinion you can't really cheat at religion in the same way you might cheat at a game of chance.

The Mother named Giselle that has taken up residence in Haven's chantry has reassured Dusty that it's all right to explore different aspects of faith… especially when there's that whole dwarf thing to consider. The Chant doesn't mention dwarves at all, though overall Dusty doesn't consider that to be any worse than Orzammar viewing the Cadash as functionally non-existent. She's also pretty sure the chantry doesn't brand anyone's face for having the audacity to not have important parents, which is another point in their favour.

Dusty got hers when she was fourteen, just a kid amongst the Carta. They like their teens. Old enough to listen to instructions, young enough to avoid suspicion. And young enough that when the guards beneath the surface catch you, they're so generous as to let you off with a beating, a one-way trip back topside, and a permanent reminder of how Orzammar treats criminals.

That's the last time the Carta sent her underground. She wonders sometimes whether they hear about the Breach down there, if the concept of a hole in the sky is even something that the dwarves can grasp. Dusty has her doubts.

"If it isn't my totally law-abiding friend!"

Startled, Dusty stumbles and almost trips. There's a warm, throaty chuckle that over time has become familiar. A little heat rising to freckled cheeks, Dusty steadies herself and gives a rather cool look to the laugh's owner.

"So, come to tell everyone that you're on the straight and narrow? Because after the fleecing you gave the bar at Wicked Grace, I'm not sure anyone is going to believe you."

"Sorry Varric, but the criminal life just keeps dragging me back in," and so odd that it's just _Varric_ now. When did she begin to be on a first name basis with a deshyr of the merchant's guild? That's crazy enough on its own without even adding the 'writer' and 'hero' parts. Everyone in the free marches knows about Kirkwall and the crazy shit that went on in that place. _The Tale of the Champion_ might downplay Varric's role in all of the events in the city, but the dangers that a person like Hawke encountered would not have brooked a random tagalong.

Besides, isn't Varric here helping the Inquisition fight off another massive crisis? No... Dusty doesn't think she's ever going to get used to the fact she knows a man like this personally.

"Smuggling again? I'm disappointed in you," Varric slowly shakes his head. "Between the huge payoffs, the gratitude of the Inquisition and the pleasure of the company of yours truly… wait, where was I going with this?"

"Not that huge. I don't really see most of what the Inquisition pays for the lyrium," she gets a cut at least, and given that the first time Dusty found out just how much lyrium was going for her jaw nearly hit the floor, it's actually pretty gratifying that the Carta trust her with the deals. Well. Doing the legwork for the deals. She's not important enough to be anywhere near the negotiating table.

"What self-respecting smuggler doesn't skim a little off the top?" Varric teases.

"One who enjoys her hide remaining intact."

"That is… a pretty good point, actually. You win this one, Dusty," there's an ever so slight frown, easily missed. Faintly, Varric murmurs something that sounds a little like 'that's just cheating…'

Dusty doesn't pry. She's good at pointedly not asking questions, it's one of the reasons that the Carta likes her.

"Well, you know. We can't all be daring heroes that fight along the chosen hero of Andraste and still have time to write books when we get home."

Varric, from a neutral expression, slowly grins. "You know, I don't think I ever actually told you I was a writer."

Dusty swallows. No, no he hasn't. "I… it's not uncommon knowledge. Plenty of people in Haven talk about your books."

"Yeah? Well, if you'd like I have a copy of _Hard in Hightown _just lying around. It's about a guardsman called Donnen who's-"

"Two weeks from retirement," Dusty finishes, automatically. Then her eyes go wide. "_Sod!_"

"A smuggler who reads my crime serial. Should I be worried you're looking for tips?"

"I… I should go. Delivery. Lyrium. Have to… do that… with the lyrium."

Dusty bolts, Varric's laughter in hot pursuit.

_Me and my big sodding mouth!_


	8. Valor Adaar

"Get up, Adaar."

Valor Adaar pares open an eye with the utmost resentment. Over her stands the looming, unrelenting figure of the boss of her merc company, Shokrakar, qunari like Valor.

"I got last watch…" Valor mutters, more growls. "It's still dark."

"You got last watch. We got demons. Get up."

That wakes her up in a hurry. "Demons? I thought the big one wasn't spitting those out any more."

Shokrakar grunts. "It's not the big one. It's a small one. Just opened up an hour ago. Ashaad's been watching it."

Valor rolls out of her tent, strapping on a bracer, thankful that all of her gear is within arm's reach. "I told you that coming so close to Haven was a bad idea."

The larger woman grins toothily. "What, and miss the chance to fight demons?"

Adaar rolls her eyes. "These rifts are everywhere right now. If we were going to fight them, I was hoping that we'd at least get paid for it."

Shokrakar, in the process of turning away, pauses long enough to glance over her shoulder. "Killing demons is its own reward, Adaar."

"Uh-huh," breastplate comes next, followed by her greaves. All steel, though there's little protection for her arms. Valor prefers the mobility of not having everything encased, lets her move her shield around a little quicker than most expect, and she's already damn fast with the longsword.

Fighting demons in the middle of nowhere. Wonderful. Just how she's always dreamed of spending her adulthood. Still, on the balance of things, Valor supposes that it's better than working a job that she disagrees with on principle. She and Shokrakar almost came to blows a few months back, when Valor refused to participate in running refugees off some nobleman's land. It's taken this long for Adaar to get back out of the mabari kennels. A certain amount of disregard for authority is expected from a band consisting predominantly of Tal'Vashoth, but Shokrakar damn well expects them to listen when she gives orders.

Valor's shield is secure on her arm as she trudges through the churned snow calling itself footing. They've been trekking through these mountains for weeks now, and the novelty has officially worn off. Around her, the Valo-Kas assemble, unhurried and organised, though there is a palpable edge of excitement running through the camp. Most of the others share Shokrakar's enthusiasm for a good fight, and it's been a good while since they had any action. They'd been on their way to the Conclave when they found the whole damn thing had blown up before they arrived, which scuppered those plans. Valor had wanted to take Shokrakar's insistence of coming this way back to Orlais as stubbornness alone… but of course there's the ulterior motive.

Shokrakar stands at the front of the group, right at the fringes of camp. Valor approaches, testing her sword with a slash through the air, and then sheathing it.

"Alright, what's the plan?"

"They're demons. We go kill them."

"Wonderful."

"Let me know when demons start strategizing, Adaar, then we talk plans."

Valor grumbles, but says nothing. There's no arguing with Shorakar when she's in this kind of mood. It doesn't stop Valor from trying on occasion, but this particular hill isn't really worth dying on.

Shokrakar turns to the others. "Let's keep this simple. There's a rift over that ridge," she points for emphasis. "Let's go kill everything that it spat out. Don't die, cause I'm not dragging your body over a mountain if you do."

Inspiring.

The Valo-Kas move out with a roar, keeping to a loose formation. Shokrakar leads from the front, naturally, Valor just a little behind her. Close enough to watch her captain's back, distant enough to not be perceived as trying to take the lead. Shokrakar can be touchy about that.

The demons arrive before the mercenaries even crest the snow-covered ridge, a hissing and a steam rising in the air signalling the arrival of a rage demon, glowing bright with smouldering flames. Just behind it, wreathed with darkness, a pair of shades. There are more white plumes of smoke behind them, rising above the top of the hill. They aren't alone.

Shokrakar wades in immediately, wielding the greatsword for which the company is named. Two brutal swings as a shade flows forward and its simply gone, dissolving into shredded shadows. The rage demon puts its 'hands' into a funnel shape and Valor steps forward, shield raised to catch the gout of fire that emerges. The heat washes over her, singing the tips of her horns, melting the snow around her, even warming the metal in her hand. Just as it seems it may be too much, the inferno subsides. Valor follows through with a lunge, sword slamming deep into the demon's torso. It gives an ugly screech of pain and then lashes out with a fiery claw. Valor is driven back a step, the heat of that hand passing so close to her face it nearly burns. Respite is swift in coming; two of her fellows engage it from the flanks, harrying from the sides and with a series of slashes, bringing it down.

Valor grimaces. Most foes have the decency to die when impaled through the chest.

Moments later, battle is joined in earnest. The demons have had an hour to slip through the rift in force; mangled, nebulous things, twisted in form and ferocious in combat. The Valo-Kas are experienced and disciplined, but when faced down with monsters given flesh, it's difficult to maintain the same battle lust. Valor slams her shield into the ragged face of a shade, driving it back, and then in one smooth thrust, dispatches it. There's a scowl on her face the entire time. Being good at something and enjoying it are not one and the same. Ahead the rift pulses, bathing the scene in a sickly green light as it hangs in the air, crackling with magical energies.

At some point, as the fighting ebbs and flows, Valor finds herself side by side with Shokrakar again. Her captain pants heavily, covered in black ichor from head to toe. Valor isn't doing much better, and as she eyes their surroundings, notes the number of mercenaries nursing injuries or already downed, she has a sinking feeling. The demons just keep coming; how long can either side keep this up?

"We're hurting, captain!"

"I know!" Shokrakar snaps, taking a demon's head clean off with one brutal swing of her sword. "Got a point to make or you just rubbing it in my face?"

Some kind of projectile arcs through the air, Valor's shield goes up, and it slams so hard into the block that her arm starts to tingle. "We should pull out! This goes much longer and we'll lose half the company!"

"I'm not running away, Adaar!"

"If we don't back out then nobody's even going to _walk_ away!"

Shokrakar cuts down another shade, Valor pivots on her heel and in a single motion, brings her blade around and slashing across the face of another approaching on Shokrakar's blind side. The bigger woman actually looks even angrier at Valor for that.

"Adaar, you have five seconds to shut up before-"

A war horn echoes through the air, deafening, cutting straight through the clash of blade on claw, the screams and yells of the demons and Valo-Kas. Valor twists around to see a group of four barrelling down the hill towards them. A woman wielding daggers, a heavily armoured man just now lowering the horn, a shorter, crossbow wielding figure that can only be a dwarf, a slender elf with a staff. So few? Reinforcements are nice, but four fighters is hardly going to turn the tide-

The hand of the woman leading the charge is glowing with the same light emitting from the rift. In an instant, Valor realises that it's the herald. That iis/i how the herald is supposed to look, right? Mark on the hand, human woman?

The quartet slams into the engagement with a vengeance, wreathed in a magical barrier. The herald is a blur of flashing blades, the horn-blower at her side an unmoveable bulwark. They cut through the demons like a hot knife in butter, carving a hole almost straight past Valor's position en route to the rift. For their part, the Valo-Kas keep fighting, the number of demons waning as more are drawn to the herald and the qunari bring down more. For the first time, the creatures are on the back foot, doubly so as the herald's wedge drives inexorably towards the rift. Shorakar glowers at the group's backs. Words are going to be had once this is over.

Which, it seems, is going to be much swifter to arrive than Valor thought. There's a palpable thrumming sound in the air as the herald raises her hand to the rift and a green tether links palm and tear. The noise ramps up over a few seconds and then with a _boom_… the rift is just gone.

The few remaining demons seem to lose any remaining stomach to fight after that, and in short order, the battle is done. Valor surveys the aftermath with a grim expression. Several of the downed Valo-kas are still moving, which is a relief, but more aren't. This has cost them a lot.

"Here they come," Shokrakar growls, apparently uninterested in the butcher's bill. The herald, with her group, is heading towards them both, probably by dint of Shokrakar being the largest and most impressive looking member of the company.

"I'm not sure what brought you here, but thank you for taking on those demons," the herald speaks as she draws up, her three companions slightly behind her. She has a slight smile on her face, in spite of being spattered with demon blood. "I doubt we would have been able to break their lines if you hadn't been here first. I'm Ashlynn Trevelyan. Some call me the Herald of Andraste. This is Solas, Blackwall, and Varric."

Shokrakar grunts. "Thought you'd be taller."

The herald looks Shokrakar up and down. "Well, I'd say the horns give you an unfair advantage, if we're competing."

Valor's captain nearly smiles, though it may have been a trick of the light. "Can't really pass up fighting demons."

"That's… both impressively and worryingly brave."

"Too brave, one might say," the bald elf behind the herald chips in. "Even should you have found victory, you would have had no means of closing the rift."

"Thanks, Solas," another thoughtful look from the herald. "I don't suppose you were heading to Haven, were you? The Inquisition in need of skilled help, and I can promise that there won't be any shortage of demons to fight."

Shokrakar shakes her head. "Nah. We already lost one payday to you chantry types. No offence," an abrupt turn, and she's exited the conversation. Niceties have never been the captain's way.

Valor is left alone with the herald and her companions. "Sorry about that," she says, awkwardly. "We were supposed to be at the Conclave as security. She's still annoyed we trekked across the Free Marches for nothing."

"If it's any consolation, had you all been there, you probably would have made a set of wealthy corpses."

Valor glances back over her shoulder. "I'll talk with her. I've been hearing rumours of rifts all across Fereldan and Orlais, and if it's only you that can shut them, I don't think enough people are paying attention. She'll come round if I tell her that it's the best chance she's got of fighting demons for pay."

The armoured human alongside the herald shakes his head. "Acknowledging we need help, but only willing to do the right thing for coin. Odd set of priorities you have here."

"We're mercenaries. It's in the job description, and I'm not in charge."

He frowns through his beard, but says nothing more.

The herald gives a slight nod. "All right. Still, if she doesn't change her mind, every set of hands is appreciated."

"I'll consider that. Hopefully it's an offer that I won't need to take," Valor crosses her arm across her chest in a salute. "If you get a message from Adaar of the Valo-Kas, that's me. This threat shouldn't be ignored."

It's only as Valor bids farewell that she realises how deeply she believes what she told the herald. The rifts are everyone's problem… most people just don't realise it yet.


	9. Eldan Lavellan III

"You know, if you keep this up I think you're going to have to start fending off marriage proposals from Corporal Vale."

Mortar and pestle in hand and in the process of grinding yet more elfroot, Eldan pauses and then looks up from his task. Lounging opposite his workbench is the Herald, tired-looking, but nonetheless smiling.

"I'm afraid I may be something of a disappointment in that regard. Herbs aren't the best subject for pillow talk."

"Oh? So, what's your favourite variety of elfroot?" Eldan actually starts to think about before he catches the Herald winking and stops. Wait a second…

The Herald laughs with delight. "Sorry. Anyhow, don't let this go to your head, but Vale practically fell over himself to thank me for sending you here. You must have been doing great work all this time, so I wanted to thank you, uh…" she trails off, and then frowns. "Did I… really forget to ask your name last time we met? I apologise, I meet so many people these days that it slips my mind sometimes. My etiquette instructors would think me unforgiveable."

"It's quite all right. I am Eldan, First of clan Lavellan. And you are the Herald."

She wrinkles her nose. "Yeah," she sighs. "I am," her hands drop to her hips. "But my _name_ is Ashlynn Trevelyan. Lady Ashlynn, if we're to be formal, but please don't be. It gets annoying."

"Very well. Ashlynn."

She smiles, and while the expression is still tired, there's warmth there. "I don't see your friend around. Did she leave?"

Eldan shakes his head. "Revea stops by every so often. She has been hunting a lot recently; it does her some good to get away from the crowds."

"I'm glad that you have someone to keep you company at least. It must be difficult being the only Dalish here."

"There's the occasional odd look, but most of the refugees are just pleased to be receiving help, whoever is offering it."

"Good," Ashlynn spends a long moment looking out at the Crossroads. They have been transformed from a battlefield into a ramshackle camp into what is now almost a sanctuary. The pitched tents seem to grow more permanent each day, fewer injured need seeing to, and the Inquisition's efforts become stronger and stronger. "Just a shame that it takes lives being turned upside down to overlook old prejudices. My father would drop dead from shock if he knew I counted elves, dwarves and a qunari as comrades in arms."

Eldan is consistently surprised at Ashlynn's demeanour, even in their very brief acquaintance so far. She's entirely unlike what he has come to expect from humans, and particularly unlike what he had suspected someone referred to as the Herald of Andraste would resemble. Brusque, sanctimonious, arrogant. This woman is none of those things.

"My father hated humans," he says and immediately regrets.

"Can't say I blame him," she remarks cheerily. "We're pretty terrible as a rule."

Eldan, stunned, can't keep himself from laughing. Ashlynn favours him with another wink.

"There's a crisis going on," her tone is more sober now. "Anybody who turns away help is officially on my idiot list. The Maker would want us to pull together, cooperate. There's too much at stake to do otherwise."

"I stand by the sentiment, if not its source."

Ash gives him an appraising look, and then comprehension dawns. "Right. Maker. Sorry, I'm so used to being around Andrastians that I forget your people have your own gods. Remind me to ask you about them when I have the time. Or Solas, perhaps; I think you'd like him-"

"Herald!"

An armoured woman with scars and hair even shorter than Ashlynn's approaches them. An Inquisition crest is emblazoned on her breastplate, a longsword is sheathed at her hip and a shield slung across her back. The new arrival's only acknowledgement of Eldan is a slight nod.

Ashlynn holds up her hand to Eldan and turns to face the other woman. "What's the word, Cassandra?"

"A rift has opened outside of Redcliffe. We will need to seal it to reach the rebel mages."

Ashlynn groans. "I'd like, just once, for this to be simple. All right, let's move quickly. Fetch… Vivienne and Bull, and we'll get this done," an apologetic smile. "Sorry to cut this short, I'm in high demand these days. Maybe I should start charging for autographs."

"I hardly think that would be appropriate," the other woman – Cassandra objects.

"Pah, I'll go through Josephine, you can't stop me."

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust. Ashlynn catches Eldan's eye and grins. He tries to suppress the urge to burst into laughter.

It's an uncanny resemblance.


	10. Andrew Trevelyan II

A knock at Andrew's chamber door draws him away from his desk. He looks one last time at the incantation he's been attempting to decipher for over a week, and then answers.

"Come in."

A blonde head pokes around the door frame. Celia, originally from Ostwick's Alienage. Also one of Andrew's closest friends. "Hey. Got a message."

He rises with a smile. "Don't leave me in suspense then."

That expression falters when he sees the furtive look on Celia's face. She glances behind her into the corridor, and then slips into Andrew's room, closing the door behind her. "The First Enchanter wants to see you. "

"By the way you walked in, I'm going to guess that he's not looking for my opinion on his furnishings."

"Stop joking around," Celia's eyes are hard, and it's not until a few moments later, when she takes a deep breath, that her countenance softens again. "Sorry. I'm worried. I overheard the First Enchanter discussing you while I was waiting outside his office. I think that… I think they're meaning to send you away."

"Oh," for once, words fail Andrew. That's … that's a daunting prospect, especially after the Conclave. He doesn't like hiding behind closed doors while Thedas burns at the hands of the mage-templar conflict, but to be _sent away_? What for? Where? Is the Circle trying to pick a side? If so, Andrew can think of many better emissaries than him… though slightly fewer since the disaster at Haven. "Are… are you sure?"

"They mentioned 'diplomatic ties' two or three times, and there was something to do with needing an escort."

"Oh," Andrew says again, with utmost verbal nuance. "Right. I… I suppose I'll… see what he wants, then."

They step forward simultaneously, Andrew pauses in mid step and Celia just continues right on, hugging him fiercely, laying her head to his chest. Taken aback, Andrew's jaw hangs for a moment. "Um…"

"Just… be careful with it. The last time someone I cared about left the Circle, they never came back."

"I have no intention of leaving," Andrew says softly. Of course, Celia's mentor had been a member of the party Ostwick sent to the Conclave. "And if I do-"

"Don't talk about that. Please," her grip on him is the fervent grasp of someone that worries that if they let go, he'll just float away. Andrew's hands hover over her for a moment or two, and then settle on patting her on the back.

"Okay Celia, if you don't let go they're going to think I've taken root."

The bear hug is finally broken. Celia steps off to the side, and Andrew can feel her eyes on his back as he exits the room, sense the anxiety rolling off of her. Neither one of them can make a claim to being popular around the Circle, and that's led to the two being very familiar with each other's emotions. Socially awkward both, she an elf in a group that has its problems with the race, and Andrew, to be blunt, not actually very good at magic. It's a strange fellowship, but one that has endured a long time.

That, as much as anything else, gives Andrew an uneasy chill as he strides down the corridor of the Circle, mentally ticking through possibilities. Few are encouraging. Fewer still are encouraging and _plausible_, though it's nice to temporarily entertain the notion that the first enchanter wants to promote his quarters to a room larger than the average-sized cupboard.

The First Enchanter's study looms ahead. The door is a huge slab of heavy wood, and though it lies shut at first, as Andrew approaches, it opens. A slender, almost emaciated man with grey hair steps out, face like thunder, robes all in disarray.

"Enchanter Matheld. Is the First Enchanter –"

Without a word, Matheld steps past Andrew, the only acknowledgement that he's there at all a slight tilting back of his chin. Andrew's mouth hangs open mid-sentence before he shuts it with a frown. Matheld has never been the most sociable of the senior enchanters, but to out and out ignore him like that… Something very odd is afoot here, as if being sent for by the head of the Circle isn't enough indication alone.

The door is left hanging open, so with a slight shrug, as if he can fool himself into suppressing his own apprehension, Andrew enters.

First Enchanter Leonards is a young man for his rank, but each time Andrew sees him, his face seems to be a little more lined, his eyes a little more sunken, his hairline a little further receded. He's the perfect example of a person being crushed by the weight of responsibility, and every mage in Ostwick is aware that the decision for their Circle to remain out of the conflict was far from a unanimous one. Fielding dissent from both sides can hardly be easy.

He fixes Andrew with a tired smile. "Come in, come in."

Entering proper, Andrew sits in a chair opposite Leonards' desk. "You sent for me, First Enchanter."

"Yes I did. Tell me, are you familiar with the Inquisition?"

There's that word again. There have been a few rumours around the Circle about a rebel group splitting off from the chantry… though Andrew isn't sure how many of those rumours are just muddled up with the schism of the Templar order.

"Not very," he says eventually.

"I see. The short version is that it's a group that appeared after the Conclave, formed at the authority of the Left and Right Hands of the Divine. They've rallied around someone they're calling the Herald of Andraste, whom it's said was saved from the destruction of the Conclave by Andraste herself. Regardless of whether that's true, they're the only person exhibiting the ability to close these Fade Rifts, and the Inquisition is the only group that is focusing on the Breach in the sky."

That gets Andrew's attention in a hurry. He's not ashamed to admit that the idea of holes in the world spitting out demons absolutely terrifies him. Demons in general are the cause of many a sleepless night, and more of them in the world can absolutely not be a good thing. The chantry rhetoric he can maybe do without, but that's just a matter of being opposed to any dichotomy that says 'we're going to shove you in a box for being born with something that you can't help'. It's nice to be safe… but there are other ways of ensuring safety than putting your charges in a cage.

"Sounds like they're doing good work."

Leonards nods, almost imperceptibly. "They are. It's why I'm sending you to Haven to join them."

Those words hit like a punch to the gut. "I… don't follow you, First Enchanter."

"The Breach needs to be a priority right now. For everyone. It's the biggest hole in the Veil in known history, that's rather more important than a squabble that's liable to just get people killed. i_More_/i people killed. I've been urged to pick a side recently more times than I can count; told to declare loyalty to the Circle and Enchanter Vivienne, told that we should be heading to Redcliffe to join up with the rest of the rebels. I say that this Inquisition is our side."

"Okay, I suppose that makes sense, but…" Andrew gropes for what to say. "I don't have seniority," he settles on. "And, not to beat around the bush, First Enchanter, I'm hardly the pinnacle of magical accomplishment."

"It's not your talents that make you an appealing representative Andrew, it's your diplomatic connections."

Andrew cocks an eyebrow. "Ah yes, my network of agents that I've built up over many years of playing the Game in noble circles, each poised at a moment's notice to- Wait, no, that's the main character from the book I just read."

Leonards sighs heavily. "Be flippant as much as you like, Andrew; the Trevelyan name commands respect. That will be more useful to both them and us than sending our most powerful mages."

A moment of silence, and then the explosion as Andrew stands up so abruptly his chair falls over. "I haven't seen my family since I was six years old, Enchanter! Do you really think that anyone is going to care about someone who hasn't been nobility for fifteen years?"

"Irrelevant," Leonards is perfectly calm, even in the face of Andrew's protests. "It will attract attention, and for once, it will be the good kind."

"Do I get a say in this?"

Leonards' eyebrows go up, and he seems genuinely surprised. "Of course you do. That you're my preferred candidate doesn't mean that I'm giving you no choice in the matter."

Andrew deflates slightly. It's difficult to be quite so righteously indignant when the object of your ire is being relatively reasonable. "I don't want to leave, First Enchanter. My place is here."

"Are you certain it's your place, or merely where you feel safe?"

"…what are you saying?"

"That you have a very real chance to make a difference with the Inquisition, perhaps moreso than anyone else in this Circle. You're a mage, you have the noble name, and you have a way with words."

"I have _my_ way with words. That's not the same thing."

Leonards gives a short bark of a laugh. "When I was your age I hated being cooped up in the Circle. I would have taken the arm off of the man who offered me the chance to leave."

Andrew looks down, then back up. Leaving is… he's not even sure how to feel about that. Maybe if the motive for Leonards' selection was anything other than the family he hasn't seen since he was a child. "I'm only leaving if Celia comes too; not if you send her, if she _wants_ to come."

The First Enchanter's eyes narrow. "…Agreed."

Andrew is outside the room and halfway down the corridor before he lets out the breath he began holding after he offered his 'terms'.


End file.
